I’ve just been sifting through older posts in this blog, as I sometimes do to find information and find where I’ve put it. it’s tedious — I have little patience for such tasks, but it’s the only way to find out what I’ve already written about, and where it is.

this blog, more than any of my others, has always been a struggle. I began it in april 2008, nearly eight years ago, on soulcast rather than wordpress. when later I moved a lot of the original posts to this website, I didn’t get them all. never finished the job.

the struggle has always been the how. how do I write about the department of mental health, the landlady, the mafia-chick, matthew and his colleagues in a way that will be credible? knowing that I was not then nor have ever been delusional, I wanted to figure out a way to make the bizarre and sick story that I’d got stuck in believable. I don’t think delusionals worry about that sort of thing, if they bother to write things down. don’t think they worry about how to write their story, what moods to use, what words. don’t think they go over their writing again and again to change some words, change some emphasis, in the constant desire to get the bizarre and sick story believed.

it started with a lot of anger and sarcasm in 2008. at that time I thought that if my outrage was crystal clear, some of that same outrage at the way I was being treated by both the people chasing me and the people protecting me would rise up in a reader. later I changed my thinking, reasoning that my fierce anger at the federal people would probably only be construed as nutty. anger in general is usually seen as nutty. we live in a politically correct world of vanilla sensibilities in which anger is not welcome. so I went through many, many of the earliest sehnen posts and toned down my fury quite a bit. I didn’t want to eliminate it totally, because then, as now, I felt my anger was absolutely justified.

over the years I’ve added details I originally didn’t want to use: place names, street names, the undercover names of matthew and some of his pals, and so on. there was a certain amount of fear in the early months of writing these things. fear that some of the agents might get hurt if anyone read what I was saying (I was still quite sappy and stupid about my protectors back then), and fear of the feds themselves. if I said the wrong things, would they shut down my blog? a number of people were telling me this: that if the fbi didn’t like what I was saying, they would simply blotto my blog. they haven’t done so thus far. over time, a year or two, I realized that my blog is no threat to their protection operation: they know that very few people believe me, ipso facto, their doings are not threatened.

I have no clue how many of them even look at this blog, but I know of one. one who, I’m nearly certain, reads every word I ever write online, has been doing so since I began. after all, I was already in protection for about nine months when I began blogging, and didn’t know it yet. that one reads, and that one knows, and maybe it’s even because of that one that my blogs are for the most part left alone.

by 2011 I was trying hard to include ever more specifics in my posts, to the extent that I have them. telling myself to be very clear about what I know for certain, as opposed to what someone else told me, as opposed to what I have had an educated guess at. another tweaking designed, as always, to create as credible a narrative as I could.

nothing seems to help. if any readers do believe me, they certainly don’t leave comments saying so. they don’t share my outrage at this immorality, they don’t offer any kind of support. I think it’s possible that of the readers who do in fact believe me, many of them do what people I know personally have done: they decide that matthew lied to me. that way they don’t have to call me a delusional, but neither do they have to get up the courage to accept what I say as truth. they can skirt around all of that by saying that matthew lied, and I, poor sap, believed him. I’m not delusional, I’m just gullible and stupid. my own friend in eastern mass believes this. how can she tell me every now and then how sharp I am, how correctly I have assessed the human race, and then strongly imply at other times that I am ditzy enough to believe a whopper matthew told me long ago? I don’t understand how she can think me astute about people most of the time, but as concerns matthew’s words to me, I am a putz.

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I fought believing it myself early on. or part of me did. one part of me had no doubt at all that matthew was telling me the truth, but another part did not want to accept it: this cannot be true in my life. I’m not a criminal, and mostly it is traitorous criminals who end up in protection. the others are hapless witnesses, who saw or heard something that turned out to be dangerous for them. I’m not one of those either. so I have ended up in illegal, immoral protection that uses me as bait without my consent, and I’ve done so through a means I’ve never heard of before. I was lied about, and then my life was in danger. the fact that I’ve never heard of this particular road to federal protection before doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened to someone else somewhere; it only means I haven’t heard of it.

but it was all too bizarre, all too melodramatic and hollywood, all too restricted to the world of deranged thugs to be happening in my life. I kept trying to tell myself it wasn’t true. and then I’d go out my door. I’d see the various dirtbags and protectors around me, watch them do the code that was becoming ever easier for me to spot. to translate? no, I repeat that do not know what any of the code means (a delusional would. a delusional would have all the answers because they make them up). I only know when I’m hearing or seeing code. I’d go out my door — any door I was behind anywhere — and immediately the show would begin. my heart would sink, my brain would say jesus, it is true, and every day it became less and less possible to deny it.

when I was still naive, I thought I could run away from it. telling myself that it was probably just a small mob that was chasing me, completely disregarding the fact that they had come across a state line from connecticut to find me, I decided to leave. I started with the county. out of franklin county I went, into the county called hampshire. I was crushed when I arrived there and saw the circus waiting for me. crushed, but not yet deterred. I decided to leave the state. surely that would do the trick.

I went to new hampshire, to keene. if the circus was there waiting, as I now know it had to be, it was not obvious to me right away. it grew up around me as I hung out there on the main street, bloomed and grew larger like some macabre garden of fertile sociopaths. I sat there on that main street, hot and tired and homeless, and was crushed yet again: there was no running away from it; it would be waiting wherever I chose to go.

the plan was to sit there till night, then find some cops and ask if there was a shelter. I didn’t have to go looking for cops, by the way. they were cruising all around me for hours in their cop cars, back and forth, back and forth. anyway, the plan was altered when I became sick. apparently from something I’d eaten earlier in the day, food allergies rearing up in their distressing way. I got very sick. and when I was so sick I couldn’t stand up anymore for the weakness, when I sat down on cement and collapsed against the brick wall of a cumberland farms, the police came to me. three agents got there first, quietly guarding me out there, very close, parking their motorcycles in a row in front of me, creating a sort of wall between me and the street. the store manager had called the cops. he thought I either had alcohol poisoning or was repeatedly shooting drugs in his bathroom.

the moral: there was no running away. it was most likely not a tiny mob. I could not get away from it, not in the living state, anyway. I entered a deeper level of despair that night. the feeling of being trapped magnified remarkably. the feelings of being powerless to do myself any good. without a badge number, without a document or two, I could never sue the feds and get them to stop this undercover torture, to talk to me openly and keep me informed of what was happening in my now very insane life.

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sehnen means longing. when I chose that blog name I was longing for news of my animals, for a home, for the department of mental health to do right by me. only three months into the writing, matthew told me about the other business going on in my life, and more longings were born. the longing for people to believe me, the longing to find some lawyer or journalist who would try to help me confront my protectors, the longing for these mob people to be given the message that I’d never done anything to them. the longing for matthew to stop participating in this scheme — a scheme that maybe he himself had designed, for all I know — to protect me and use me as juicy bait at the same time.

what does longing become when it lasts, unsatisfied, for years? I ask myself that periodically. does the longing for fulfillment of a need become a great hard scab after years of denial? does it become a malignant tumor? in my case, it has certainly become an ever-growing contempt for the human race. but what else has it become? it doesn’t feel the yearning way it did when it was young. it’s much different.

but it is still there in some metamorphosed shape. the longing for belief, the longing for proof, the longing for a way to get the feds to stop all the cloak-and-dagger theatricals and treat me like a person.

and I sort of lied. there was one indeed one smidgen of code that I translated: when a male agent takes off a grey shirt right in front of me, it means I’m leaving town. I did a lot of town-leaving back when I was homeless. anyway, this bit of code was by far the easiest, and the only one I ever thought I’d figured out.

smile for the camera, matthew. smile that enormous, engaging smile that I know you can do. or smile one of your many other smiles. smile and I’ll take your picture.

that was yesterday. but he did not smile. nor did he look sullen, or put on the idiot face, or look away. he just sat there on the sidewalk looking straight at my phone while I took his picture.

I didn’t get close, due to my aversion to being close to him at all, and so in order to discern his face I have to edit. but even the edit doesn’t show his face well, because I wouldn’t go very near. now that I’ve done it, it astounds me that I’ve never done it before. years ago I took photos of a couple of my other protectors, but never him.

and this all came about because my friend wanted to go agent-watching. we’ve done it a couple of times in recent weeks. we park on main street in front of the health food store, sit there with our coffee and cigarettes, waiting for undercover goons to show up and do code. my friend likes me to point out the goons and show her when they’re doing code. I state as I have stated before in this blog, I do not know what the code means. I only know when I’m seeing code. I have, after all, had it shoved down my throat for seven and a half years.

my friend was well rewarded yesterday, as matthew was already on the scene when we arrived. we got to see him do antics with other protectors, and perhaps with one thug too. I saw him twice do a hand-signal I’ve never seen until yesterday. and so, sitting there with the boss-protector already ensconced on the sidewalk, I suddenly got the idea to take a picture of the man himself.

my friend questions me a great deal about everything that has transpired between me and the protectors, and me and the thugs. in the course of her interrogation yesterday, an event came to mind that I haven’t thought about in several years. my friend found this vignette so entertaining that she was laughing and smiling. matthew over on the sidewalk could hear, I think, just about every word. so the story goes as follows:

in july of 2008, the busiest month ever for my protectors, I think, greenfield was having some kind of a two or three-day sidewalk festival going on. mob people from connecticut came to scope me out, and scope they did. unabashedly in their very shiny black cars. it was a very draining couple of days. on one of the days, matthew apparently wanted me to stay at the health food store for a while so goons could do their business without me trotting off, and to achieve this he put upon the sidewalk a very cute, very young man who was playing the guitar and singing beatles songs. knowing that I am old and like beatles songs, matthew had chosen his material well. the young man said his name was tucker. I stayed there with tucker and his friend for over an hour, chatting between songs, playing the comic to make tucker laugh, and occasionally dropping money into his guitar case. a jovial time was had by all. or at least that was what the three of us pretended.

the next time I went to matthew’s, I was pleasant. well I don’t know why you wanted me to stay at green fields market (and he did not tell me why), but you chose tucker well. music I like being played and sung by a very cute, personable young man. tucker was adorable, I say. absolutely adorable. I could just eat him up. I would love to have a life-size, wind-up tucker in my livingroom so that I could flick the switch and listen to him whenever I wanted. can you get me one of those, matthew, a fake tucker? he’s so adorable.

matthew, who had been beaming while I praised him for his cleverness, is by the end of my shtik looking down into his lap most sullenly, saying in a pout-voice: he’s not that cute.

my friend got a real laugh out of this story. I’m sure you will not, as it’s probably one of those you-had-to-be-there kind of things. I wonder what matthew thought of it, sitting there on the sidewalk listening. matthew lacoy, the second half of which name is phony. another that could perhaps be put in its place is miller.

recently I was telling my friend about the one and only time since this whole mess began in 2007 that I have ever seen a federal badge. the subject came up because she’d been looking at federal badges on youtube.

it’s in my journals somewhere, and maybe I’ve even written about it before in this blog. but since I lack the ambition to go digging through blogs and journals, I’ll just write it here.

my journal would tell me the day, date and time that this particular federal show was staged. all I can say now at a three-year remove is that it was in 2012, in the fall, on a nice day. I was on my back porch, which faced a large alley that runs between third street and fourth in the hellhole I call turners trolls.

sitting there smoking on a very nice day, and down the alley comes walking a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before. this in itself is bizarre, because I sat smoking on those stairs countless times, and knew every face, every body, every voice that ever came down that alley day or night. turners is a small place, and the very center of town, where this happened, even smaller. if you pay attention, as I have been forced to do by the situation I’m in, you notice immediately the face that is new, the face that doesn’t belong.

so down the alley strolls the face that doesn’t fit, into my yard, and right over to me smoking there on my back stairs. he walks over to me so purposefully, so intentionally, never casting his face around to see if there’s someone else he can talk to, that I can only conclude, both then and now, that I was his destination in the first place. that it was me and no one else he was gunning for, so to speak.

he asks me about the vacant house next to mine, which is for sale by the bank that foreclosed on it. but as his questions continue, he reveals that it isn’t really the house he cares about, but the man from whom the bank took it back.

at some point during this discourse he tells me his name, despite the fact that I haven’t asked and I don’t give a damn what his name is. I think he even shook my hand. and after he gets done with his unwanted name, he says he’s with the department of justice, and I become internally frozen. a fed, I’m thinking. this guy is actually saying out loud to me, the little piece of mob bait, that he’s a fed. this scene is already so otherworldly that I’m now stunned, and then he makes it worse: I’m required by law to tell you that I’m armed, and with that he opens his tan corduroy jacket to show me his badge on his chest and his gun in its holster.

being stunned, as an aside, is something that the feds constantly use against me. they know that some people with asperger’s get stunned and locked up very easily by the behavior of neurotypicals, and the feds take mean advantage of this tendency of mine to freeze as often as they see an opportunity to do it.

my head, mostly frozen, is asking a million questions: is this guy who came down the alley to find me and is showing me his gun going to arrest me for something? is this the day the feds finally come into my home, give me some documents, and tell me badge and gun and all that yes, I am their piece of bait, and yes, they have been protecting me undercover all this time and now that’s going to change? now they’re going to treat me like a person?

the things I want and need, the things I’ve waited for for years, do not happen. yet again. he does not come upstairs with me, give me documents, tell me that yes, I have been in undercover protection all this long time, but from now on things will be different. the protection will throw off its covers, I will be kept informed of what’s going on, and my needs and wishes as a human being will be considered.

he asks me to show him where the man who owned the empty house lives, and I take him there. it’s just down the alley. after we say our good-byes, he walks into the backyard and up to the first floor door. but I have told him that the man lives on the second floor.

I watch him from behind a dumpster. he never goes to the second floor. he looks around for me, doesn’t seem to know I’m still looming, and walks away into fourth street from the side yard.

truth:

DOJ agents do not walk down alleys in dinky little places like turners trolls, in broad daylight, carrying guns and pretending to look for deadbeat landlords. they do not, and I will never accept that they do. such a thing would only occur if they were pulling some kind of a stunt, protective or otherwise, on their own private piece of mafia bait, who happens to live in little turners. such a thing would only occur, here in tiny turners, if a stunt were being pulled on me.

questions:

why does a law enforcement person show me his gun and badge if he is not going to arrest me? okay, maybe he’s questioning me about someone who has committed a federal crime. but why do I have to see the gun for that? wouldn’t the badge suffice? I was answering his questions anyway, without all that, so why the drama? the man he was asking about is someone I loathe, someone from whom I tried three times to rent one lousy apartment in 2011, and who is certifiably insane. he hacked into one of my email accounts twice (is that a federal crime? doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell the agent about that), and for all I know he’s been up to all sorts of other chicanery. but if this man is truly the reason for the DOJ guy’s visit, why does he not knock on this man’s door and talk to him, show him the gun and the badge? why does he walk away?

I believe that most rational people would agree, if they thought about it purely objectively, that there was absolutely no plausible reason for this man to have behaved in the way that he did, except for the fact that I am what I am: the feds’ own piece of bait and property, on whom endless tricks are endlessly played. I think most rational people would conclude, as I did, that this man came down the alley specifically to see me, to show me his gun and badge loudly outside the abandoned house. to protect me from someone? to perform yet another federal test of character, test of reactions on me?

my friend thinks he spoke so loudly outside the empty house and did the gun and badge thing because there was someone lurking in that house from whom I needed protection right that minute. it’s an idea I’ve never had myself, and yet it’s as likely as anything else. and it’s certainly true that I never get told, in an above-board and human-being sort of way, when someone who means me harm is very close to me. I get told by such dramatic stunts on the parts of the agent, I get told by frantic and lunatic code, by drama and stunts, and when the stuff around my person gets thicker and crazier and more extreme, then I know.

like the time so long ago now when matthew came power-walking down main street wearing a very thick winter parka (code) on a very hot and humid june day in 2008, in order to get between me and someone very near. it’s rare to see matthew, or any of them, move with that kind of speed. when they do that, when they add speed or a gun or a badge to their usual code and drama, I know it’s a very bad day.

it’s been my practice for a long time to write in this blog whenever ginger the mafia chick, or any of the undercover protectors, stage some kind of a performance at me. I’ve grown rather lax about that practice over the last couple of years. I’ve grown lax about writing in general.

matthew lacoy (this is not his real name, of course, but it’s the only one I’ve ever been told), the master of my protection and my so far unceasing torment, gave me a break for a long time. he did not put his body before my eyes for close to a year, from december of 2014 until 22 september 2015. it was a great relief. it’s been my contention for years (in 2008 I even wrote him a letter saying so) that if some protector has to do a bit of the endless code in front of me, or stand between me and someone who wants to hurt me, that it doesn’t have to be him. he has what feels like a million minions, and one of them can do whatever has to be done in front of my face. after preaching this message off and on for six years, I thought he’d finally received it. I thought he’d grown a fragment of a conscience.

think again, anne. were you not an idiot to think that he could ever grow something as alien to law enforcement as a conscience? you were.

he popped out this past september 22nd, when for the first time I brought my new grandson to main street in greenfield. in truth he didn’t just pop out in front of us, he was squatting on the sidewalk waiting for us when we parked the car. his next move was to come over very close to the stroller once we had the baby in it. he shadowed us two or three more times that day, as we moved from store to store.

I admit that it rattled me to see him come out for the baby. after months and months of staying out of my sight, here he is on the sidewalk waiting, here he is at the stroller, and in front of the jewelry store, and squatting at yet another store when we wheel the baby past. and that time, from his squatting position, he was nearly at eye level with the baby, and made this sweet, charmed little smile, the like of which I’ve never seen on matthew’s face before, as if to say: isn’t that baby so absolutely cute. and he is. he’s my only grandchild and I am hugely biased, but I do think he’s one of the prettiest and most facially expressive babies I’ve ever seen. apparently matthew was rather taken with him too. but it does cause me concern, still today, that after so many months of invisibility, he would come out and monitor us when we had the baby.

since that day, he has continued to get into my view nearly every time I go to main street, usually more than once. squatting down and babysitting me when I am in a store, usually the store called zemi, and doing some of his other gambits as well. my grandson came again in december, and matthew dogged us a second time.

but the pièce de résistance was this past monday. it was my birthday. I went to main street to do things on my birthday with two friends (lucky accident of fate: at least this time I was not wading in the federal/mob muck alone).

he wasn’t waiting on the sidewalk when we got out of our cars, but someone else was. our first stop was the health food store. I know from long and ugly experience that matthew uses this place as a sort of headquarters, partly because his cousin was for years a manager there. we were inside maybe 20 minutes when he made his grand move: he got right in between me and my friend at the coffee stand. his body was actually touching mine. when I turned my head and saw it was him I dashed away, of course, spilling a little trail of coffee all along my route.

we sat down inside and he went back to squatting outside in front of the store. we could see his head as we ate. actually, I could not eat the danish I had bought. I was too angry. lots of reasons for that anger, not the least of which being that after years of not making physical contact anymore, he suddenly decides he has to do it again, without an excuse me or a may I or any acknowledgment at all that I am indeed a person and not his federal property, that he is invading my personal space and that it is both rude and uncalled for. he may have to protect me, but he doesn’t have to touch me.

my original plan was to leave the health food store pretty quickly and go elsewhere, but I changed my mind. I wanted to see how long he would plague us. it was about 50 minutes. that’s how long my friends and I stayed, and that’s how long he glommed on. for a while it was no longer good enough to squat. he had to get right up on the store’s built-in bench (that’s where I met him lo these long years ago), right beside my friend. all that separated them was a thick pane of glass.

I was angrier than I’ve been in a very long time. from time to time I would go out on the sidewalk to smoke and rail about him and his federal ilk in a nice loud voice, rail while he sat there on the sidewalk listening and watching me. I did it inside the store too, and I would not cease. another federal boy, aaron, came to sit behind us in the dining area, and I railed about him as well.

eventually we went to other stores. matthew and another undercover sleaze called guy remained squatting in front of the health foods, and other protectors took up the babysitting as we moved further down the street.

when we went to eat at el greco, we sat watching the little parade of protectors pass by the window, and I pointed these people out to my friends. a couple of them came by more than once.

I’d planned to stay on main until 4:00, but the muck and the reason behind the muck wore me out. I quit at 2:40. one of my friends drove off and the other one took me with her. as she drove, she said to me: you’re safe from them now, you’re in the car. well we didn’t go far, only straight out the west end of main street to the dunkin donuts on the mohawk trail, a short distance in the merry haven of greenfield. we pull into a space and park the car, and there’s matthew. he’s sitting inside at a table with another man, and I am stunned. at the two tables beside him sit two more protectors, little bodyguards for him (I’ve seen this a few times before, on very bad days. while matthew guards me, he is also being guarded). I’m stunned because here he is again, and I thought I’d done with him for the day. but I’m also stunned because this is only the second time in seven and a half years that I’ve ever seen matthew sitting in a restaurant with anyone other than me, and the first time was way back in 2008. he is sitting with a man who is dangerous. I’ve had to be faced with dangerous men before. I can almost smell them.

while my friend goes in to get her coffee, I stand outside the window glaring in at him. I’m trying, if such a thing can be done, to pass the rage in my cells through the window and into his cells. I want him to feel how much I despise him and his colleagues. and I’m also studying, ananlyzing the body language and facial expressions of his little bodyguards, of him, and of the man sitting with him. I study them and know what’s up, because I have had years of practice doing this sort of analysis.

when we pull out of the parking lot, a light bulb of an idea turns on. I say to my friend: damn it, I should have gone into that place, marched up to him, and blown his cover again. I should have said you federal undercover slime, stay away from me. but my friend didn’t turned the car around, as I was hoping she would, and a fantastic and extremely rare opportunity was lost. I bitched about it for the rest of the afternoon: here was a little golden goose of a chance dropped in front of me, and I realized it about 3 minutes too late.

at my friend’s house, we watched on youtube a very short video in which a woman was saying: I hate the fbi with a boiling passion. I was clapping my hands. she had just finished describing a little psychological trick they had done to her that morning, a trick which has also been done to me many times. I could find out very little about this woman, but it seems she is either in or has refused to be in the witness protection thingy, WITSEC.

there have been people over these years who’ve thought me ungrateful. their thinking is this: the feds have kept you alive since september of 2007. stop hating them and be grateful. but I am autistic after all, and I do view life and people in a way that most neurotypicals find to be skewed. I still maintain, as I always have, that keeping me alive is one issue, and they have, yes, so far done an excellent job with that. but another issue is morality, and yet another is my status as a human being with both human and civil rights. my right, for instance, not to be used as mafia bait without my consent. my right to have had the agents come to my door in 2007 in their ugly suits and inform me of the trouble I was in, and inform me what was going to happen next, and locate me and my animals somewhere, and only use me as bait if I agreed to help them in this way. and the likelihood is great that I would indeed have agreed to help them as long as they were protecting me, because I am no fan of organized crime.

you can say that it is eight and a half years that they’ve kept me alive, but you can also say that it’s that same amount of time that they’ve treated me not like a person, but like a piece of property that they have bought and paid for. it is for this complete lack of morality that I despise them the most. I repeat that they are as sociopathic as the people they are fighting.

I haven’t been through these years of amoral, even cruel, undercover protection for nothing. I’ve learned many things about code, about undercover procedures, about matthew’s own particular style of mounting an operation. I know that what happened on my birthday happened because someone was in the health food store who wanted to hurt me on my birthday, and apparently wanted to do it right then and there. I usually, after so much time, can spot these people when they’re near me, but I was distracted by the presence of my friends and didn’t suss out whoever it was. in any case, my brithday wasn’t ruined because matthew had some malicious desire to do so, although I would really like it to be that. but I have learned, and I’ve had other days like monday. I know he ruined my birthday in order to keep me from physical harm. well done, matthew. does that feed your colossal ego enough? nonetheless I despise you.

this post follows on things I mentioned in the previous one.. link below

so, the jude-wench, the ginger rubberboobs, the psychotic addict, the most loathsome creature of all the loathsome creatures I’ve ever known.

so it was yesterday, september 8th, in the turners trolls gorcery store, and there she was. I was making a beeline for the milk — it was the only thing I needed to get. my therapist — that therapist who believes what I say about matthew and rubberboobs and feds and mobbies, who does think me delusional — was waiting for me in the car. I see a grocery cart coming at me from the right, but I’m in a hurry and think nothing of it. when I reach the milk fridge, she reaches it too, and I see that it’s her. we are standing still, both of us, only two or three feet apart. I wait for the insane mouth, but it doesn’t come. I get my milk, turn right to get closer to her, and still she keeps her pie-hole shut. that’s the second time.

I saw her a few months ago, again at the grocery store. I’m going out, she’s coming in, and she says not a word. that’s twice in a row she has managed to keep her insane tauntings to herself, so maybe the detective really did speak to her last year. he said he was going to threaten her with a new harassment law that’s been recently passed, and maybe he really did.

I go to the car and tell the therapist. and then I ask the question I’ve been asking since 2008: why isn’t she in jail. it’s illegal (as far as I know) to pay someone to hurt or kill someone else. so shouldn’t it be just as illegal to commit an act and tell some lies that end up getting someone else hunted, that you know will get this person hunted, and that is your intent.

when I asked matthew that question in 2008, I got a lot supercilious posturing about big fish. the rubberboobs was never a big enough fish for the feds. they wanted the ones from connecticut, and believe me, they got some of them. but you’d think, wouldn’t you, that since she’s such a big fish to me, since she plunged my life into this movie-theater freak show, that they’d prosecute her and lock her up for me. just as a little treat for me. but no, I’m not a human being to these feds (as I continually state). I’m a piece of bait and a piece of property, but not a human being.

I say again: this is what the jude did. in 2007. she stole from some mobsters for whom she was selling drugs, told them I was the thief, and thrust me into the sickening world of amoral feds on one side and amoral gangsters on the other. and she did this because she despises me and wanted me dead, or at least very badly banged up.why go to such extremes over someone you hate? well, sane people wouldn’t, obviously. but she is not sane, never has been from the stories I’ve been told by people who knew her before I did. insane, and a severe addict to both alcohol and drugs.

you might wonder what I did to her. I rejected her. that’s it. but in her psycho world, that’s enough for murder. within a couple of months of her moving into my building, I could see how horrible she was, and I backed off from neighborly friendliness, chats at the picnic table in the backyard, etc. I rejected her. and for that I had to die. can you grasp how truly psychotic that is? I rejected her so I had to be dead?

she did many other things to me on the way to the big one, some of which I’ve written about in this blog over the last seven years, some I haven’t yet. she set a mob to chasing me because I rejected her. and her theft must have been a very hefty one, because these people wanted to kill me. I didn’t think so at first, thought they just wanted to rough me up and get back whatever I was supposed to have taken. but it was matthew who set me straight on that, and let me know that killing was the objective.

it would have ended. even matthew had expected it to be over in a few months. if you’ve read any books by retired feds or retired mobsters, you know that the feds infiltrate. they penetrate the organization they’ve targeted and insert information, lies or truth. (until I ended up in this mess, I’d never read any books like that, but now I have, you bet.) so the infiltration most likely happened, and the news that I had taken nothing was no doubt delivered into the right ears, within a few months. and that should have been the end.

but it wasn’t. why? because some fed, most likely matthew himself, committed a nasty that came down on my head, made my nightmare worse and much, much longer.

I want the wench dead or in a federal prison even more than I want such things for matthew. even more. and you can sit there in your politically correct, new-age righteousness and say: it’s wrong to hate, let it go. it’s wrong to wish others dead, let it go. but it hasn’t happened to you. the horrors I’ve been through because of the jude and because of matthew, the worst of which I’ve never yet written in this blog, are not horrors you have had to live in. and if I can get no justice, even retribution, through the courts (and I can’t), then the energies in the universe’s quantum field are my only hope. energies to gather and neutralize these two people, in a very big way.

there is not an iota of remorse in either one of them. in the face of such sociopathy, why should I be the moral hero and let it go? I see no reason. hatred is the seed they’ve sown with me, is what they have earned by their treatment of me, and it is what they deserve.

I don’t recall whether I’ve said it here earlier in this blog, and don’t at the moment have the motivation to check back and see, but I now have a therapist who does not think me a delusional and who believes me concerning the law enforcement versus crime types theater that has existed in my life for nearly eight years. I have had this therapist since 2013, and it’s a relief not to be called a wing-nut, in whatever euphemistic PC terms therapists have used to call me said wing-nut.

last night I was doing some housecleaning. I happened upon a notebook from the summer of 2008, a summer that has been much discussed in this blog. the summer when the dramas between my protectors and those who hunted me was at its most bizarre, and most ugly. there were not nearly enough notes on those pages to suit me: I didn’t keep up the written notes as well as I wish I had, but I was taping things onto recorded journals too. that summer. that summer out of a movie, that summer out of time and place; time and places as I had never known them before.

I’ve tried before in this blog to quantify the rage I feel at the fbi, and can only fail. never can I find the right combination of words to describe it accurately, so that anyone reading the words would get a good sense of the hugeness of the anger. and the anxiety, and the sorrow, and the resentment. i was bait, I was property, but I was not a human being.

it’s been a long time now since undercover man extraordinaire, matthew the bold and the brave, has put his carcass in front of my face. the longest time ever, I’m sure. so long that I no longer know exactly when the last time was that he did it. august 2014? september?

when I don’t see him for a while, I engender daydreams: he’s dead. or he’s finally quit working for the fascists. or he’s been assigned some other territory and will never gawk at me again. I have engendered the daydream many times over the last seven years that he will one day do right by me, even though the rational part of me knows perfectly well that if he were morally capable of doing right by me, he would have done so long ago. but there’s a part of me that needs so ferociously for someone in the fbi or dea or atf to finally do right by me… and matthew, having professed his so-called love for me back in that evil summer 2008, has always seemed the most likely candidate for a moral conversion. there are no moral conversions among the ranks of the various gangs of federal police. at least not for me.

seven years later, I have still never written in my blogs about all of it. baffling that the story of one wretched summer has still never been fully told, that the undercover tales of one ugly summer could fill a couple of hundred pages if I were to write it from beginning to end. an absolutely ludicrous pastiche of costumes, codes done with cigarettes and cigars, hand signals, planes, motorcycles, helicopters, dogs, whistling in the dark, gunshots in the dark, lies, manipulations, very sleek black cars with connecticut plates, and more, and more. and all the time I was the bait, and I was the property not allowed to be taken by the other side, but I was not a person.

only part of me wants to know where he is. most of me is content not to see him, so that the daydream that he could be dead and gone can be allowed to grow. because only if he’s dead can I be certain that I will never see his face again. and most of me wants that very much. can you imagine the anger, can you imagine the sorrow? probably not.

and as to ginger rubberboobs… there was some trouble with her last year several times, shooting off her psychotic mouth at me. finally I asked a detective in town if he would have a word with her. did he? I don’t know. he said he would, said he’d tell her not to speak to me. I don’t believe much that people say anymore. in any case, I daydream often that she’s locked up in a federal prison, where she belongs, and that they’ve sunk the key to her cell in the sea in a block of cement.

this is now an unusual stroke, as she hasn’t spoken directly to me since the summer of 2008. driving by me in her white chariot on the streets of greenfield (while I was being protected from people she had sent after me), sticking her arm up to wave, turning her face to me and YELLING, Hi there. since then she has sometimes spoken about me, in my hearing, when we are in the same store and she has someone with her. she has also sometimes bullied me in her car (NOT the white chariot as of 2010), crawling slowly along the curb, following me, smirking out the passenger window (yes, leaning right over from the steering wheel to put her unlovely face at the passenger window) as I walk on some street.

but as of this past december, she is ramping up her revolting appearances. I have seen her five times since new year’s eve, five times in as many months. I haven’t seen her five times in five months since she moved out of turners trolls in december of 2007. moved to erving. but I think she might be back in troll-town.

so what did she have to say… I was walking up seventh street, and she was driving down. in a chariot I’ve never seen before (she has changed chariots often since 2009). she pulled the chariot over, stopped it, put her unlovely face out the window and loudly proclaimed: Miss Anne Nakis, you better stop talking about me or your ass’ll be in court.

now, I’ve been talking about her since 2006: eight years, as she has likewise been talking about me. I’ve been writing about her now and then on my blogs since 2008: six years. and suddenly now, this particular day, she decides to get her thong in a knot over it? now she wants to bully me again? she bullied me in a plethora of ways for the seventeen months we lived in the same building (aug 2006-dec 2007), and her greatest coup was to steal money/drugs from mobsters in connecticut, tell them I did it, and get me hunted. and that’s not enough? far more than enough? I’ve known many a drug-addicted (like her), alcoholic (like her), insane person (also like her) who would have been fully content with the seventeen months of devious, underhanded, unrelenting bullying and harassment. would have considered that enough of a victory over someone they detested. but rubberboobs had to get her mob pals on me. apparently even a vicious, sadistic, drastic move like that wasn’t enough to satisfy her hunger for power over me for more than… six or so years. now she needs to launch a new campaign, one that begins with attempts to bully and intimidate me out of my right to free speech?

I can talk to anyone I want to about her and say anything I like, just as she can about me. we both have free speech. only in my case, anything I say about her is the truth as I have experienced it. she, on the other hand, lies pathologically. I know this. I’ve been on the receiving end of it.

I’ve thought about this a good bit today, and have decided that one very possible reason she is acting up again now is that someone has got her jazzed up. someone who knows me, who used to be my friend, and to whom I have talked about the rubberboobs abuse. two candidates, whom I will call Joni and Lulu.

lulu was my landlady in 2012. she told me she met rubber at her church in 2010, that rubber had a brief period of turning to religion. I have since won a legal judgment against lulu (though she hasn’t paid yet, of course), and if lulu ran into rubber somewhere (at church again, say. rubberboobs flirting with religion a second time?) and, furious at me over legal matters and of course no longer my friend, then she could have fanned the flames of rubber’s ever-irrational fires.

and then joni. she and I have been friends four different times since 1991, most recently this very year. joni knew rubber long before I ever did. knew some of her family too. anyway, the first three friendships with joni ended with her throwing a temper and walking out of my life. this gave her a feeling of power, I’m sure, as each time she got to be the dumpER. but this past april she called me on the 25th, we spoke, I hung up, and have never called her again. the simplistic and shallow among you are no doubt thinking: you ended it so that this time YOU could be one with the power. you are, as simplistic and shallow minds always are, quite wrong. joni was telling me all about her plans to move far away by the end of this year. very far. so she was going to end the relationship anyway. we weren’t going to be spending anymore time together after that. I couldn’t stand this fourth ending looming up in front of me, hanging over my head like damocles’ sword. so I decided to end it sooner rather than wait for what was looming. get into the pain of the ending straightaway. but joni, who has very definite control and power issues, could have become so radically bent out of shape over the fact that this one time anne decided to end things, that she ran into rubber somewhere and, in that loud and very mean way joni has at times, gave rubber an earful, fanning those psychotic fires.

unless either joni or lulu makes an admission, I’m never, of course, going to know for certain which one of them I have to thank (irony) for mafia maid’s flare-up today. but knowing these three women as I do, I am quite certain that rubber was made looped-up by someone, lulu and joni are the best two candidates on offer. the only two, really. with ex-friends like these, who needs enemies.

what did I say to rubberboobs today? only one word. the aspergian shock I experience when people behave outrageously most of the time leaves me tongue-tied. later I think of all kinds of clever riposte I could have used, but in the period of shock, I can produce little or nothing. all I could croak out there on the sidewalk was the single word DIE. it may not be clever, stinging, or witty, but it is a one-word truth. I have wanted her to die for a very long time. so that the abuse will be over once and for all.

this is both the title of frank’s book and the name the fbi gave to the operation that brought down both frank’s father, and a big chunk of the chicago outfit.

because of the things that happened to me in 2008 and 2009, I have a fierce interest in true stories about mobs, their victims, and the sociopathic fbi. but I don’t want fiction. the true stories have so far been hard for me to locate, so, in my mob-story isolation, I devoured this book. after all, unlike the author, I did not have my family behind me when I was going through my own mob story, not even one lousy member. I don’t have them now. and while the people who have believed me over the years are some comfort, it isn’t the same as having someone in my family on my side, someone who is related to the family gangster just as I am. but no, I am a fruit-loop. despite the fact that it was a relative who confirmed part of matthew’s story for me, saying that family research had revealed that my grandfather was most likely a criminal and that in 1943 he suddenly disappeared, I am still a fruit-loop. no moral support for me, no nothing.

unlike me, frank knew of his father’s type of business from early in life. at age eighteen, he joined his father in such business. it makes me ask questions, this story of frank’s, questions shooting off in my mind all through the reading of the book like little fireworks, questions that no one will ever answer. for instance: my father had his mafia father for fifteen years, then my grandparents split up. by the age of fifteen, did my father know his father was a mobster? as the oldest child and a son, had he even been told by his father in a sort of macho, father-son talk? did my father know about grampa’s first family that he’d produced on the island of crete before ever coming to the u.s., the family to whom any mob earnings must have been sent, since my father and his siblings grew up in poverty? the few in my family who remain alive and might have some answers do not talk (denial and under-the-rug-sweeping are two of my family’s favorite psychological tricks). and matthew, who has the answers, will not talk either.

frank calabrese jr. finds himself of two minds in the early part of his life, and I very much understand this split. he both loves his father deeply, and is horrified by him. he follows him into organized crime, but it isn’t exactly clear to me from the book whether he does this out of fear of his father, or out of the same kind of rapacious greed that his father suffers from. or both. since I never knew my crime grandfather, since he betrayed his organization (how? matthew won’t tell) and was killed by them ten years before I was born, I have many questions about him. the stories told about him as I was growing up, few as they were, were not of a mobster. those stories were apparently mostly lies. I want to know exactly what he did for this mob of his, and who of his loved ones, both in greece and in the u.s., he put in danger with his way of life. I spent fifty-five years loving this man I never saw, loving him because he was my dad’s father and he meant something to him; loving him because he was absent, and therefore a magnetic mystery; loving him because he gave us our greek blood, of which I used to be proud. since 2008, I’m of two minds: the old me who loved this family ghost, and the newer part of me that is disgusted and ashamed.

eventually, frank, his father, his uncle, his brother, are all arrested and sent to prison on racketeering charges. while they are serving their sentences, frank decides to betray his father and get into bed with the fbi. this is not an easy choice for him, and I’ve heard him with his own voice on a radio show talking about the two separate sets of feelings he has for his father, and how very hard these things were for him. I hope that in his situation I would have done what he did, but I can’t know that for certain. he wears a wire in the prison yard and gets his father to talk about murders and all kinds of other illegal past behavior. he hands it all over to the feds. he takes their instructions. even the feds are shocked by the large role frank’s father had in the outfit, because they hadn’t known. what they had thought was going to be a relatively small mob case, taking a small but important bite out of the outfit, turned out to be, according to frank, the biggest bite out of a mob since the days of capone.

frank expresses respect for the agents he dealt with. my own attitude towards them is quite different. succinctly put, I detest them. but frank was treated one way by them, and I was treated quite another way. yet another question that popped up more than once while reading: why did frank, a criminal who was betraying his father, deserve to be treated like a human being by the feds, and I, a non-criminal, did not? why did he deserve that, and I didn’t? many criminals in the annals of the fbi have been treated with kid gloves compared to the way they treated me. I have always only been able to conclude that I was bait. matthew spoke once of big fish, when I was asking him why some of the minnows who had got me into this horror show hadn’t been arrested. big fish. and they came to greenfield in 2008, some of those big connecticut fish, believe me they did. and made themselves very obvious to me, no attempts to be clandestine. what became of them once they had been lured in? no idea. when asked, matthew wouldn’t tell. so frank respects the federal cops, and I do not.

a couple of things come up in the story that bring about a dark shiver, one of them being a method of murder favored by frank’s father and uncle. things involving strangulation and a knife. long ago when I was in college, my little cousin was murdered. the act involved strangulation and a knife, or so I was told by my aunt, the child’s mother. naturally I asked matthew about this cousin, after sitting there telling him yet another story that he already knew. the whole time I talked, he wouldn’t look at me. he stared out the window crying quietly, and only looked at me when I was finished narrating and asked my questions. he answered them in his undercover act, his pseudo-schizophrenic gibberish, and so I still do not know if the murder of my cousin came about in the way that we were told, for the reasons we were told, or if it was something completely different, and uglier, and more sinister. mobs have codes, many people have told me, and I know this. they don’t whack women and children, these people have said. and it seems that that’s true, that most of the time they leave women and children alone. but I’m a woman, and, according to matthew, they came after me because of some lies told to them by one of their lackeys (the one I call the mafia-chick). so if they would make a rare exception and come after me, why could they not also have made one forty years ago and got my cousin, a mere child? I think they could have. but I also think the killing could have been exactly what we were told it was. ad nauseam: matthew wouldn’t tell.

to me, frank jr. is a mostly brave and mostly selfless man. he does not see himself this way. he was afraid of his father, and this fear led to the betrayal. he emphasizes his fear. he betrayed him in order to be free of him. but in getting himself free of the old coot, he got many others free of him too. he did things along the way in the building of the case that were indeed courageous and selfless. he asked for no reduction of sentence, no immunity, and refused the witness protection program. in 2011, when this book came out and the radio interview was done, he said that he was not one to hide. and also, that he needed to give his father the opening for revenge. it was part of the code that his father, if released from prison, deserved to murder him, and frank felt he had to give his father that chance (part of the code is still in frank jr.). that’s brave in my book, to sit and wait for the day your father could come to kill you.

early this year (2013), frank calabrese, sr. died in federal prison. in honor of this death (or so it felt to me), that 2011 radio interview was re-aired. hooray, the old murderer is dead. hooray, he never got released on parole to go and kill his brave son. hooray, frank never has to fear his father again. and yet I know there must be great grief for frank too, because, like me, frank continued to hope till the bitter end that his father would one day love him, one day ask forgiveness, and that even if for only a few years, if only on prison visits, they could have a somewhat normal father-son bond. he has hungered for this all his life, and I understand such hunger very, very well.

if I had a hat on, frank, I’d tip it to you many times over. all the cheap male cowards I have known. and then there’s you out there in the world. thank you for being out there in the world. a brave man. a mostly unselfish man. a man who hungers for normality and love.

the delusional thing. a diagnosis made on what basis? I occasionally asked this question, back in 2008 and 2009, of various psyhcobabble boneheads. they didn’t answer me. they changed the subject. and no matter how many breaths I wasted telling them that that conclusion was an insult to both my integrity and my sanity, that a flesh-and-blood human being (the infamous matthew lacoy) had taken me to his apartment numerous times, had told me certain things, and had done some very undercover-cop-like things in my presence, no one was moved to write something other than delusional on their little pieces of paper. no matter how many of them told me that it was true that I didn’t have the affect that delusionals normally have, or the multiple fairy-stories, still they wrote what they wrote. when I objected that I was not receiving sinister messages from my toaster, or my TV, or the inside of my head, the psychobabblers looked down at their shoes, or out the window. and regardless of how many times they asked me, in how many different places, had I ever heard voices? seen visions?, and my answers were always NO, they still wrote what wasn’t at all true on their papers. they asked me what year it was, who was president, how old I was, and other such things, ad nauseam, and I always had the right answers. but still they wrote their totally erroneous words on their little pieces of paper (which later got transferred to their computer files on said fruit-loop, anne nakis).

it’s bad enough when ordinary people dismiss you as a delusional (and by no means every ordinary person has. a good number have believed me), but it’s far worse when the psycho-corps writes it on papers whose words get typed into computer files and you, the incorrectly diagnosed, cannot erase one word of it. even after you are quite dead, anyone who might decide for whatever reason to go nosing around in your life can potentially find these untruths about you and take them as truth. after all, if a psychobabbler said it, it must be true. right?

though I strain this old brain, I can’t now remember who it was I had the expunging discussion with, which particular psychobabbler in which particular town. nonetheless the conversation was had, in which I asked what would I have to do to get these totally false diagnoses removed from my various records. the answer was that I would need to 1.) be evaluated by at least two separate psychiatrists who would both declare that I was not delusional… that perhaps matthew was, or that he was just a creep who was hoaxing me for some reason, but that I myself was simply repeating words that he’d said to me and relating things that he and others (including the mafia-chick herself) had said and done in my presence; 2.) hire a lawyer to go to court with me and present the testimony from these psychiatrists, and said lawyer would urge the judge to order that my records be expunged of words like delusional or schizophrenic.

as if I have the proverbial snowball’s chance in hades of hiring shrinks and some lawyer for the mentally ill, on my disability income of less than $1500 a month. as if I ever have any prayer of getting this job done. with no other options, I have written for five years in the sehnen, braon, and mishibone blogs about absolutely true words and events of 2008 and 2009. I have talked myself blue, with the result that some people believe me, and some don’t, and those who don’t are mostly the airheads who write the slander on their pieces of paper. after my death, all of this slander will still exist in various psychobabble computers, and there is nothing I can do to clear my name in their realm, to defend my sanity and my integrity.

I am in a situation where I get very little physical contact. I get 2 hugs from Y 3 times a week, I get a hug from C from time to time, M a couple of time a year, and the odd friend when I see them. I don’t feel safe with most of the people i know. Because our experiences in life are so different, I can’t relate to things they say, and they can’t relate to things I say. They also don’t have the same insight (for whatever reason), and a lot of their pain comes out in blaming others. I have the insight, but because of my upbringing, I have little to no control of my emotions and my window of tolerance is only a slit. This means I don’t have support of an insightful environment, and it means that I am constantly triggered by the people…